by Markus Heitz
What they saw made them stop in mid-attack.
A dozen men and women were operating the dragon-head and neck on long poles, which they were raising and lowering to give the impression the creature was moving. Others were making the snout open and close; directly adjacent five more of them were banging away on boxes and drums and metal sheets to create the dragon’s roaring voice. They had constructed a sort of funnel arrangement to increase the volume of noise.
“Puppeteers! Will you look at that! Just what I thought!” Ireheart grinned. “You can’t trick a dwarf that easily, you idiot play actors!” He sprang into their midst, whirling his crow’s beak in circles; the Zhadár and the squadron followed suit.
The wooden poles that were wielded against them soon fell, smashed by powerful blows; Ireheart’s battle-fury kicked in, sending a red mask of rage over his face.
Yelling and cheering he dealt out shattering blows with his weapon, feeling blood spurting, and hearing the cries and groans of the wounded and dying—until his friend’s voice reached him. With immense difficulty he forced back the tide of fever, the fire in his veins, the bloodlust that had taken him over. He rubbed his eyes and surveyed the carnage.
Human remains lay scattered around.
They had not put up much of a fight and Ireheart had been disappointed at the lack of resistance. Catching his breath, he aimed a kick at the stuffed dragon-head. Sweat was pouring off him. “Ha! Dead!” He cleaned off his weapon in a foul temper. “What a let-down. I still can’t cross off killing a dragon on my list.”
Hargorin came round the rock with a troop of his men expecting to help Ireheart fight the Dragon. He halted the soldiers and came over to inspect what was left of the enemy soldiers and the monster. “Wielgar has a lot of explaining to do,” was his only comment. Coïra, Mallenia and Rodario also arrived and stared in astonishment at the bloodbath and the dragon cadaver.
“I don’t need Wielgar.” Boïndil looked at Tungdil. “The Dragon must have died some time back and the Lohasbranders kept quiet about it so that the people would carry on obeying them. And the pig-faces, too, I suppose.” The one-eyed dwarf nodded.
The maga clenched her fists. “To Tion with the lot of the bastards! They deserve their deaths three times over. How long have they been pulling the wool over our eyes?” She almost did not want to know the answer so that she would not have to reproach herself with anything. Had they not been terrified of reprisals from the Dragon they would surely have driven out the occupying forces from their island realm and her mother would have been able to free herself much sooner from her shackles. Then she would never have been slain in battle with the älfar…
Hatred flamed up in her heart on a scale she had never experienced before. She wanted every last one of the enemy to know her feelings.
Coïra whirled round on her heel and hurried back to the barracks to confront Wielgar.
“Follow her.” Tungdil ran after her and left it up to Hargorin and Barskalín to finish off the wounded and guard the cave entrance.
They reached the hut in time to see the maga slicing off the struggling, shrieking Wielgar’s ears and hurling them disdainfully at him. She swung her sword arm in preparation for a blow to his heart, but Tungdil restrained her and pushed her aside.
“No, Your Majesty! First he has to answer some questions, then you shall have your revenge,” he said to calm her. Rodario and Mallenia held Coïra back, and stopped her lunging at the prisoner, knife in hand.
Tungdil confronted Wielgar, whose shoulders were now drenched in the blood that was streaming down left and right. “We have defeated your friends, Lohasbrander. How long have you been playing this trick on the people of Weyurn?”
“All is lost. It’s all over.” The man sobbed and let himself hang drooping in his chains.
Ireheart threw some water over him. “Talk, longlegs. Or I’ll get salt to rub in your wounds.”
“Forty cycles,” he whimpered.
“Forty?” yelled Coïra, quite beside herself. You’ve oppressed us for forty years without reason, letting us live in fear, just so you could live in luxury?” She lunged forward again. If it had not been for Rodario and Mallenia, she would have killed him there and then. “I curse you, Wielgar! I curse you and all your band!”
The Lohasbrander sobbed. “We found the Dragon one morning dead in a ravine and we knew our reign would be over if anyone found out. So we brought his body back and stuffed it so we could trick the orcs and ensure they would go on serving us.”
“Just what I said,” Ireheart remarked, glad to have his theory confirmed. He folded his arms across his broad dwarf-chest.
“Old Clever Clogs,” replied Slîn.
“For once,” added Balyndar spitefully.
Tungdil kicked Wielgar. “How many orcs have you got?”
“The ones you killed and one thousand in Weyurn. That’s all,” the man howled. “The dwarves have blocked the western approaches and aren’t letting any more orcs through.”
Ireheart stood up tall and proud. “Balyndis will be pleased to hear that. Her tribe has done good work there. Vraccas has blessed them with an iron will.” He turned to the human and asked, “What happened to the treasure?”
Wielgar sniffed. Saliva and mucus ran down his face. “We spent it all ages ago. There’s nothing left. That’s why we raised the tribute rate, so we could start getting some more money in.”
Coïra spat at him. “You are worse than the orcs, worse than the lowest scum,” she hissed. “To oppress and deceive your own people out of pure greed!”
Wielgar let his head sink down and whimpered to himself. Tungdil came over to the queen. “Majesty, your realm has achieved freedom quicker than we thought possible. The squadron’s messengers can spread the news throughout the land and we’ll send them out with parts of the Dragon’s head as evidence.” He looked at her sharply. “You will still accompany me to the south to fight Lot-Ionan.”
“I…” She was struggling to reply.
“Your help is more sorely needed than ever. If Lohasbrand no longer exists as an adversary to keep Lot-Ionan in check, we will need your magic powers or Girdlegard cannot survive.” The brown in his single eye seemed to grow darker. “If we don’t succeed in defeating the magus, evil will pour out of the Black Abyss unchecked. Not even the eoîl and avatars were as bad or as powerful a scourge as what will befall us all if that happens.”
Coïra gulped and looked at Mallenia. “Yes. Of course I shall follow you, high king,” she replied meekly. “Without you and your bold plan I would never have come to the Red Mountains and my people would not be free. I am in your debt. My whole land is in your debt.”
He nodded to her and smiled. Like the old Tungdil, thought Ireheart. “Thank you. We shall rest for the length of one orbit and then we shall set out for the Blue Mountains. We’ll leave messages here for the firstlings. They will find them sooner or later. We don’t have time to send an expedition out west to look for them.” He left the barracks to inform Hargorin and Barskalín.
Now Rodario and Mallenia could release the maga.
“Go outside,” said Coïra quietly. “I want to be alone with this scum.” Her eyes were brimming with tears of rage. They left the room, and as Ireheart pulled the door to behind him they heard Wielgar’s first scream.
“I wouldn’t have thought her capable of that,” commented Rodario. “She looked so gentle. So kind.”
“Just think what the Lohasbranders have done to her.” Mallenia could certainly understand the queen’s attitude. She wanted to get all the älfar in her clutches one by one to pay them back for the terror they had inflicted for so very many cycles on her land.
Wielgar cried out again, loud and shrill. Full of the fear of death.
“Will you be dealing in similar vein with the vassal-rulers?” The actor studied her face intently.
“They will be tried in the courts. We’ll take them prisoner, subject them to judgment and punish them according to the verdicts
.” The Ido girl looked at Hargorin. “He is the best example of how easily one can be deceived.”
“I could employ him in my theater troupe.” Rodario nodded. “He tricked the älfar for such a long time in order to be ready when the opportunity arose. If he had courted their enmity it would have served him and the thirdlings ill indeed.”
They went into the neighboring building, where they found the orcs’ quarters. It was surprisingly clean and did not even smell strongly.
“What about the thirdlings in älfar service who oppressed the population in whole swathes of the land?” Rodario and Mallenia sat down on a bench by the window, from where they could keep an eye on events in the cave.
“It will be difficult to get Urgon, Idoslane and Gauragar to understand that the thirdlings were only acting a role. I’ll ask the high king how we should proceed. If the thirdlings were to withdraw into the mountains, no one will pursue them.” Mallenia tried to work out how much truth she could confide in Rodario as to the present state of Coïra’s magic powers.
She looked him in the eyes and her heart started to race. Even now, when he had shrugged off the mantle of helplessness, she could not take her eyes off him. Where will it all end? “The journey in the next few orbits will take us right across Rân Ribastur and Sangpur,” she said, to take her mind off things. And she wanted to hear his point of view. “What do you know about the queendoms?”
He held her eyes, searching to read her expression until she dropped her gaze. “Well, Rân Ribastur is covered in trees and Sangpur is covered in sand,” he said, amused by her reaction.
“That’s not what I meant.” Mallenia was furious with herself for blushing, and for feeling light-headed, too. Next time she would show him that she could not be unsettled so easily. “It’s all under Lot-Ionan now.”
“Aha! You wanted to know what to expect when we get there?” He leaned back and thought she looked rather lovely when she blushed. She was obviously pretty inexperienced with men and affairs of the heart. “Rumor has it that he has shared out the land to his famuli, who are doing their magic experiments there and generally bothering the residents. He guards his magic source jealously and only lets his famuli have access one by one and at set times, so that he can keep an eye on them. He seems to have developed a kind of persecution mania. If we are to believe the stories, he has six or seven separate phobias. He must be making a collection.”
“Don’t the rumors say how many famuli there are? I ask because of Queen Coïra. She’ll have to put them all out of action.” Mallenia tapped her sword hilt. “You can’t always use one of these to deal with a magician.”
“I see things just the same as you.” He pulled a face. “People come up with different versions. Some say he only has two famuli and that they hate each other. Others claim he has ten, each one more powerful than the last.” His expression now became conspiratorial. “But they are said to be at war with each other as well. They all want Lot-Ionan’s good opinion, hoping to inherit from him. If one of them wins access to the magic source they’ll have control over all the other famuli. They have created magic creatures and use them to get at each other. Particularly in Rân Ribastur I expect we’ll be under constant attack from these strange figures who derive their being from magic. But we’ll be fine. We have our maga with us.”
Mallenia swore under her breath. She was wondering how much energy Coïra still had; she would have to preserve it in order to be able to face down the magus. There was simply no time to travel to the land of the älfar to let Coïra bathe in that magic source. Tungdil Goldhand must be told the truth, or, in spite of having the Zhadár with them, their whole company might be wiped out fast.
Rodario was sitting with his chin supported on his hands, staring at Mallenia’s face, trying to read her thoughts. “I have heard of one beast more terrible than all others. Do you want to know its name?”
Mallenia was not really listening, but she lifted her hand to indicate that she did want to know the name.
“Xolototh,” he said in a dread and somber tone. “It hunts down humans, especially pretty blonde females.”
“What does it do with them? Take them prisoner?”
“Oh no, nothing like that. It does this.” He leaned forward quick as a flash and gave her a swift kiss.
Or rather, he had intended to give her a quick kiss.
But when he pulled his head back he felt her hand at the nape of his neck, pulling his mouth toward hers again. She smiled at him and closed her eyes to sink into the embrace. Attack was the best form of defense in these circumstances. And certainly the sweetest.
XX
The Outer Lands,
The Black Abyss,
Fortress Evildam,
Spring, 6492nd Solar Cycle
Winter was gone and with it the ice and snow from round the fortress—the magic red barrier, on the other hand, was still in place.
Goda watched it at dawn, and at mid-orbit, and at orbit’s end, and late at night, as if her steady gaze could somehow make it dissolve so that the stronghold’s catapults might be put into action against their foe.
But this did not happen. The glowing red screen, not unlike a thin gauze curtain in appearance, was resistant to all Goda’s wishes, prayers and spells.
Kiras came up to bring her an early-morning cup of tea. Together they observed the plain around the ravine. It had been transformed into a vast military encampment.
“Have you any idea what it means?” The tall undergroundling was surveying the scene before her.
Goda understood what she was referring to. The monsters had been making strange marks on the rock; viewed from above they formed a pattern. She guessed that they represented magic preparations rather than indications of where the monsters should be deployed in battle. There were several hundred troops by the Black Abyss, but nothing pointed to any immediate plans for attack. They were waiting, with all their war equipment around them. Waiting, just waiting.
“No,” she said slowly. “It could be a series of runes, but I can’t read them.”
“Then that’s even more worrying.” Kiras leaned against the battlements. “I’ve been asking around and nobody has an explanation for these strange marks on the ground.”
“They’re from a foreign land. They’ll not be able to understand our language either.”
“The thing that calls itself Tungdil—I bet it’d be able to read them.” Kiras looked at Goda.
“But it’s not here. We must manage without it. And anyway, it’d tell us nothing but lies.” The dwarf took out a sheet of paper on which she had previously made an exact copy of the runes she had noted. Comparing the two patterns, she realized that changes had been made. She placed the paper on the parapet and took a quill and pot of ink out of her reticule. She entered the new marks and tried, again in vain, to make sense of the drawing.
“What are you getting the guards to do with those mirrors? Whenever the sun is out they’re out there, practicing.”
“It’s just a wild idea. I need to do more research.”
An ubari brought in some news and a dwarf in black armor. He waited two paces behind the ubari messenger, not seeming particularly anxious. Goda and Kiras quickly exchanged glances. “Lady, he says that he comes from Tungdil Goldhand.”
The dwarf bowed. “I am Jarkalín Blackfist, one of the Black Squadron riding south with the high king against Lot-Ionan.”
Kiras looked him up and down. “Are all of Goldhand’s troops dressing in black nowadays? He seems to attract evil.”
“Tell me how you met up with him,” Goda demanded, holding out her hand for the message. Jarkalín gave her two leather rolls, and to the ubari he handed a sealed piece of waxed cloth with a letter enclosed in it; the symbol on one of the leather rolls was unfamiliar.
Jarkalín bowed. “This is from Aiphatòn, emperor of the älfar.”
Kiras and Goda stared at him in disbelief as if he had turned into a sharp-fanged rabbit before their very eyes.
Jarkalín gave a concise report of events. “… then the high king’s company set off for the south. I was sent out with twenty others to bring the news,” he concluded. “On the way back to the fortress I received Aiphatòn’s letter for you.” He bowed. “I shall wait for your answer to the high king.” Jarkalín withdrew three paces so that the queen could read the letter.
“Aiphatòn has turned into an ally, it seems.” Goda was puzzled by the turn of events. “Maybe Vraccas is on Tungdil’s side, after all.”
“Or perhaps it’s another god completely, out to trick us,” Kiras said sharply, her visage darkening.
Goda opened Ireheart’s letter, which told in few words the same story as Jarkalín’s spoken report. Aiphatòn wrote that the älfar were on the march and had started their campaign against Lot-Ionan.
“The emperor does not think the war will be over before the summer ends. The abyss must be contained at least till then,” she told Kiras as her gaze swept over the red globe that covered the area round the ravine. “I have a feeling our enemies will not wait that long. It’s deceptively quiet out there, a charade to lull us into a false sense of security.” She was struck by the difference between the älf’s script and her husband’s hand: The one curved and graceful, the other characterized by short straight lines, a steady pressure on the pen nib and several blots on the paper where the dwarf had been careless.
“Do we risk a sortie?” suggested Kiras.
Goda sighed. She had often played through this scenario in her head.
It would be enough if they could destroy the enemy’s equipment. The monsters had taken an age to assemble it all and they would need a long time to replace it. “I’d have to drop the barrier. That will take a lot of my energy and I can’t say how long I can hold it open.” She opened the next letter.
It was from the freelings, to say they were sending a contingent to join Tungdil. The siege the älfar and the thirdlings had subjected them to was now over—this had been effected by the negotiations or commands of the high king.
“They are glad the hero has returned to unite and lead the dwarf-tribes,” she relayed to Kiras, who grimaced. “In their eyes Tungdil Goldhand is the greatest dwarf-leader ever and has united the factions and will bring them all lasting peace following the promised defeat of Lot-Ionan.”
